


Be There

by ooliblikas



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Depression, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5502899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ooliblikas/pseuds/ooliblikas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ian struggles with his debilitating mental illness on Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be There

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Italiano available: [Esserci](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5551724) by [MaryFangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryFangirl/pseuds/MaryFangirl)



  _You're my way out_  
_You're my way through_  
_And I can't, I can't_  
_Be without you_  
_You're my way out_  
_You're my way through_  
_And I can't_  
_Be without you_

**Be There - Sea Fret**

 

“I’m sorry.” Ian whispered from his curled up fetal position on their shared bed, hazel gaze focused on the wall in front of him as he studied the chipping paint with feigned interest. His voice came out in a hollow rasp, throat tingling as a result of his prolonged silence. Ian surmised that it sounded unfamiliar, as if it never belonged to him in the first place. It wasn’t unusual though. 

The man lingering in the doorway didn’t say anything, weight-shifting from one leg to the next with the creak of the floor. At first, Ian believed the man had left him, undoubtedly going to prepare for the Christmas party that Ian insisted on throwing during his manic state, but now was suffering in catatonic silence. However, the bed shifted with added weight and Mickey came to rest beside him. For a moment, Ian remained facing the wall, struggling with the neurological pathways and mental turmoil that was keeping him chained to the bed. Eventually, he found the capability to turn and face him. When he did, Ian found himself burying his face in the crook of the man’s neck, inhaling the cheap dollar-store cologne mixed with nicotine. Years ago that smell would’ve been nauseating, but now it was the closest thing to home.

In response, a hesitant hand came up to run fingers through Ian’s hair, calloused thumb brushing against his temple. Ian found himself relaxing into the position, but as comforting as it was, it broke his heart. He was spiraling downward again, unraveling at the seams to expose raw nerve endings perfectly poised for the salting. Exhaustion creeped through every fiber of his being, consuming him until nothing was left but a shell of his former self. Ian had been in the same position for the last two days, gradually crashing into a near-catatonic state. Breathing had become an agonizing chore, weight pressing against the cavity of his chest. Guilt over his inability to function festered in the pit of his stomach, only sufficing in sending him plummeting down into the abyss of depression.

Ian realized he was in agony, unable to see the light in anything and growing steadily disenchanted with his existence. And yet, here was Mickey, cradling him like an infant all in a desperate attempt to heal his perpetually broken-heart, “I’m sorry that I’m like this.” Ian tried again in a softer voice, tremors wracking through his body in the form of a silent sob. He wanted to be more than this illness, but he felt it was taking over everything. He was a third party-spectator to his own demise.

“Enough, Ian.” Mickey tried to maintain the hardened-edge to his voice that he’d been cultivating since child-hood, but it always faltered when it came to Ian. That command sounded more like a soft-plea, punctuated with Mickey leaning back to press his lips against Ian’s forehead.

It was the kind of simplistic show of affection that reminded Ian of how far Mickey had come from the boy suffering from internalized homophobia to the man who understood that it was okay to be emotionally vulnerable with loved ones.

“I love you.” Ian managed, sucking air through his teeth where his words sounded more like a desperate plea than a statement. It’d been more than half a decade since Ian had been first diagnosed with Bipolar disorder, and much to their surprise, they’d been able to climb out of the turmoil of Ian’s self-destructive mania and agonizing depression. Of course, it took Mickey’s constant persistence, his ability to fight for Ian even when Ian himself wanted nothing more than to submit to his own suicidal ideation, to make Ian realize that life wasn’t life without Mickey. Even if Ian didn’t always know how to express it, Ian knew that so long as Mickey was by his side, he could prevail through the darkest of moments.

“I love you too, even if you’re starting to smell a little ripe.” Mickey taunted, laughter catching in his throat. Ian felt a ghost of a smile etch its way on his own features as he stared up at Mickey. Ian would be lying if he thought they’d ever end up where they were. In this small, two-bedroom apartment on the upper north-side of their neighborhood. It wasn’t much, a modest starter-apartment for two twenty-somethings navigating the trenches of adult-hood. And yet, it was theirs, and because it was theirs, no amount of chipping paint or the occasional missed payment on the light-bill could bring them down, “I’ll buy your prescription Thursday, after the holidays.” Mickey mumbled, adjusting so that he was laying on his back where Ian curled into his side.

And, of course, that’s what it ultimately came down to.  Their health insurance was shit, making Ian’s prescriptions double what most middle-class individuals would pay. It was, as they’d both realized, a flawed system. Mickey, of course, always tried to make Ian’s medication a priority above all else, even if he had to obtain the medication in illegal ways. However, in the chaos of holidays and Ian’s consistent reassurance that he had more than enough pills left over. It didn’t help that Ian had recently lost his job at the height of the Christmas season, making their household funds tight. The money they did have was spent on Christmas gifts for Yevgeny and on the food Ian had intended on cooking for Christmas. Ultimately, it was Ian’s decision to sacrifice his prescription in hopes of making Yevgeny’s sixth Christmas a memorable one, but it was blowing up in his face.

And, as if summoned by thought alone, Yevgeny was hastily knocking on their door before pushing it open. The concept of waiting for the ‘come in’ still lost on him despite Mickey persistently explaining it to him. The boy was still dressed in his pajamas that boasted _The Avengers_ as he climbed up on their bed with ease. Though, the perpetual smile on his face faltered as he looked at Ian, steadily growing more aware of the red-head’s mental instability, even if the boy didn’t have the mental or verbal capacity to truly understand it, “Is daddy feeling blue again?”

The words came out in halted English, choosing his words carefully while he fingered a loose strand on his pajama bottoms. ‘Blue’ had been Mickey’s, Ian’s, and even Svetlana’s way of explaining Ian’s depression. They tried to make it relatable and understandable, but it was obvious that the boy didn’t always understand. Yevgeny had grown up seeing Ian suffer through bouts of chronic depression punctuated with extreme mania. During his highs, Ian was an unstoppable force that was chockful of fantastical ideas. On those day’s he became more of a best-friend to Yevgeny, limit-less energy and the determination to entertain Yevgeny. At his worse, like today, he was a rock-slide headed for the depths of the ocean. Sometimes looking at Yevgeny reminded Ian of his own childhood and dealing with Monica. That, of course, always frightened Ian.

“Yeah, daddy’s not feeling too good.” Mickey spoke pointedly, his paternal tone bringing up bubbling laughter in Ian’s throat, but it never quite reached his lips. Never in a million years did Ian ever think Mickey would be father-material, but then again, Ian never thought he’d be father material. Yet, they both did their best, determined to be better father’s than either of theirs had ever been, “How about we make breakfast? Maybe we’ll open up one of your presents early.” Mickey promised much to the delight of Yevgeny. The boy then climbed over to where they laid, leaning down to plant a kiss on Ian’s temple with a lip-smacking pop. In turn, Ian smiled, running fingers through the dark-chocolate locks that reminded him of Mickey’s hair.

 “You’re going to cook?” Ian asked, glancing up at Mickey who was moving to get out of the bed. There was a hint of a tease in his question, eyes searching over Mickey’s face as he tried to regain some of his former self in his fragmented state.

“I have some survival skills, Gallagher. I can make a mean omelet, y’know. ” Mickey rolled the surname off his tongue and it reminded Ian of how the surname had gone from venomous insult to affectionate pet-name. Ian managed a snort, weight shifting to occupy the warm spot that Mickey had left. He wanted to get up, to join them in the kitchen. To do anything but decay in his mental state. He didn’t move, though, eyes-dropping off to the side when Mickey lingered in the door way, Yevgeny in his arms where the boy prattled off about a story Svetlana had told him during his weekly visits.

And then they were gone, drifting into the kitchen where Ian could hear the sound of cartoons and the clatter of kitchen utensils before the smell of cooking oil filtered into the room. Ian felt himself gradually becoming overwhelmed with exhaustion again. Fully body ache that seemed inescapable, and in his solitude, he curled into himself on the bed where he sobbed quietly into his pillow. He felt as if he was wasting away from the inside. He wanted to die, self-hatred spreading like wildfire because it was Christmas, and instead of spending it with his family, he was chained to the bed. He was chained to his looming thoughts of self-doubt and guilt.

Breakfast eventually melted into lunch and Ian stilled hadn’t moved from his spot, choosing to eventually turn away from the open doorway to return his gaze back towards the wall. With time, new voices filled their tiny apartment. Svetlana’s heavy Russian accent was first and then Fiona’s with her fiancé, Sean. in tow. And the house lit up in ways that Ian couldn’t bring himself to fathom, the sound of Veronica’s cackling laughter over the reunited Milkovich children, Mandy and Mickey, squabbling about something Ian couldn’t quite decipher. The air became less suffocating.

After the brief reunion, Fiona tracked him down in the bedroom. Ian turned to look at her over his shoulder, noting that her hair was cut-shorter now. Her expression wasn’t as exhausted, presumably as a result of Sean getting her back onto the right path and helping her in more ways than Jimmy ever could. She came to rest on the edge of the bed, “Hey.” She smiled faintly, eyes scanning over him quickly, “How ya feeling?” Her motherly tone returned in full-force as she leaned over him, warm fingers brushing strands of hair out of his face.

“Hey, Fiona.” Ian mustered, turning to lay on his back, “I’m fine, don’t worry about me. You should be out there enjoying the festivties.” Ian continued, voice sounding gradually distant to him. He tried to put on a brave face, as if he could erase his reddened eyes or force a smile that didn’t look, well, forced.

“You sure you don’t want to come with me? Debbie, Carl, Liam, and Lip; everyone, really, they’re all here for you. _We’re_ all here for you, Ian.” Fiona smiled, eyes glossing with budding tears that made Ian’s chest tighten. If he could, he would jump into an incinerator to spare himself the agony of disappointing his family in such obvious ways. They’d grown up watching their mother, Monica, suffer, and now, they were left to watch their sibling suffer. And just as Ian felt that he was a third party spectator to his own demise, they were, too.  Ian didn’t say anything, turning away from Fiona purely out of shame. There was nothing to say.

Fiona stayed with him for a few minutes, unspoken emotions building between them until they’d created a mountain. Then Fiona faded back into the living room at Mickey’s request that she help him finish preparing the Christmas ham. And there was residual anger curdling beneath Ian’s exterior, anger at himself for being weak. He wasn’t just missing his Christmas, he was missing Yevgeny’s Christmas. He was missing everything that he and Mickey had worked so hard to build together. His mental illness was eating away at everything, leaving nothing but an abyss in its wake.

So, he sat up. He sucked air through his teeth because the weight of his inner turmoil felt like a boulder sitting upon his chest cavity. His body felt heavy and his movements languid, but he was determined not to spend his life wasting away. He was depressed and he knew it. He knew his depression wasn’t going to just wash over him like a wave to return to the sea. It was going to drag him out to sea with it. But it didn’t mean he had to just watch.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet landing on the carpet beneath him with a soft thud. He felt a painful ache blossoming in his stomach and chest. Everything felt surreal and disconnected, slipping in and out of existence as he stood up on gelatin legs. And it was strange, how the simplistic act of getting out of bed radiated through him. Existing was like pushing a mountain, but Ian was determined.

And he walked out of the bedroom, arms wrapping around his torso in a protective fashion as he navigated the hallway as if it were a minefield. He realized, of course, that it was just a hallway. It was his brain that was the minefield, an endless battled field. But, Ian surmised, he’d always been a solider. He was a fucking _Gallagher_ , after all. So he prevailed until he was standing in the living room.

The living room itself was filled to capacity with all of his family and friends, laughing and rehashing the year in south-side flourish. The house was decorated with multi-colored garland that Mickey undoubtedly had struggled in putting up. The Christmas tree, too,  was haphazardly decorated with ornaments collecting towards the bottom where Yevgeny most likely hung them. Presents were stuffed beneath the tree and Yevgeny, along with Veronica and Kevin’s twins, Amy and Gemma, played with a modest spread of toys on the carpet.

At first, no one noticed his arrival until Yevgeny glanced up from his box-cars, eyes lighting up where he quickly scrambled to his feet before running to him, arms wrapping around his legs. On unsteady legs, Ian almost toppled over, but he maintained his balance where he laughed. Bending down, he lifted Yevgeny up where he carried him on his hip, smiling, “Merry Christmas, Yev.” Ian then looked at everyone else, genuine smile spreading on his face, “Merry Christmas, everyone.” His voice was soft, still distant, but it was his.

Mickey was next to approacch him, hesistant with so many people watching him, but it didn't stop him from embracing Ian. With his free-arm, Ian snaked his arm around Mickey's torso, planting a firm palm on his back that eventually balled in the fabric of the man's sweater as the red-head buried his face in his shoulder. A small sob sent tremors through Ian again, but he muffled it before leaning back to look at Mickey. A hand came up to affectionately cup the space between Mickey's neck and jawline, thumb brushing over his cheekbone, "Thank you for being there for me, Mick." Ian managed. 

And as Ian moved to sit between Mickey and Fiona on the couch, Yevgeny sliding off his lap to rejoin Amy and Gemma on the floor, Ian realized that no one cared what he looked like. They didn’t care about the grease coating his hair or the fact that he’d been wearing the same clothes for the past two days. They didn’t care about his short-comings, real or imaginary. What they cared about was that he was alive and happy. They loved him whether he was blue, happy, or somewhere in between. And Ian realized, that even beneath the burden of his mental illness, he was still happy. He was still happy and he was in love. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing Gallavich so, y'know, don't kill me.


End file.
